The Safety First Club

by William Theophilus Nichols

The junior class of the Plainville High School probably was neither much better nor much worse than the classes which had preceded it, and the other classes which were following it, along the paths of knowledge. It had its bright boys and girls and its dullards; its examples of industry and of idleness; its workers and its shirkers; its happy-go-lucky members, who made the most of the day without thought of the morrow, and its budding politicians, who laid wires and pulled them with an eye to future advantage. Perhaps the most distinguishing peculiarity of the class, however, was the influence exerted by a group of boys, with some of whom we have become acquainted.

Just why the Safety First Club (lately the Adelphi) should have been so potent a factor was not easily explained. The faculty, which had suspicion rather than understanding of the fact, did not try to explain it, while certain ambitious youths, not of the charmed circle, insisted that it could not be made clear. The club did not include the coming valedictorian or salutatorian; it had none of the most distinguished athletes; yet the truth remained that its backing was a prime necessity to secure success in any class undertaking. If there were a fund to be raised for the ball team, or if a picnic were planned or a Christmas jollification, wise promoters at once sought the endorsement of the club. As it usually was given in generous measure, there was little general criticism of the coterie, though, as was inevitable, there were envious ones who lost no opportunity privately to say unpleasant things about the members, singly and collectively.

In this, of course, jealousy figured. Several of the boys deeply resented the failure of the club to invite them to become members; and the feeling was bitterest in the case of one Thomas Orkney.

Now and then one comes upon a striking example of the square peg in the round hole. Orkney did not fit. He was comparatively a new boy in Plainville, having lived there but two or three years, and having come with some very firmly established notions of his own importance. At bottom he had his virtues—plenty of them, no doubt; but they were overlaid and concealed by a highly unfortunate manner. His early study had been under tutors, who had helped him to better knowledge of his text-books than to preparation for what may be called the rough-and-tumble experiences of recitations in a large class. If he blundered, and the division laughed, that was a black day in his calendar; and he scowled and sulked, and cherished a grudge against those who had led in the merriment. Worst of all, he often found means to settle these scores, and so had contrived to make himself exceedingly unpopular among his classmates; though, as it happened, he also drew to himself a few supporters and adherents from among the discontented element, which is so frequently to be observed in any organization.

While it could not be said that the juniors were sharply divided into factions, it was certainly true that the relations of the club and of the Orkney “crowd” were strained. Recently there had been two or three incidents, trifling in themselves, but together doing a good deal to increase the rivalry.

Oddly enough, Step Jones, one of the most peaceful of mortals, had succeeded in enraging Orkney. Step, as a rule, was no shining star of scholarship; but by some mental twist he was a very planet in Greek. In Latin he was merely fair, and in French not quite so good, while the less said of his algebra and geometry the better; but, in the speech of his friends, he took to Greek as a duck takes to water. Poke Green accused him of “reading ahead” in Xenophon for the fun of the thing; and declined to withdraw the charge in spite of his almost tearful denials, holding, indeed, that it was confirmed by Step’s success in translating a “sight” passage, which Tom Orkney had stumbled over. Poke forgot all about the episode in an hour, but Tom added another to his growing list of grievances against the club. His average for the term was far above Step’s, but he begrudged the lanky youth even a trifling triumph. And then came the matter of Willy Reynolds.

It may throw light upon the personality of Master Reynolds to explain that he was equally well known as Willy and the “Shark,” neither being used offensively, though one had a suggestion of mildness and the other of ferocity. He was, in fact, a little fellow, slender, stoop-shouldered, and physically the weakest boy in the class. Yet no other junior was less teased or picked upon. Practical jokers passed by Willy Reynolds. There was a gravity about him, not owlish, but distinctly discouraging to frivolity; and an almost hypnotic influence in his meditative and unwavering gaze. He had the prominent eyes of the near-sighted; and he had, too, the unconscious trick of staring steadfastly at man or thing of whose very existence he was barely conscious; and as he stared through big, round lenses, set in a heavy black frame, the effect was impressive, if not terrifying. Consequently, even the most mischievous of his mates preferred to let him alone, especially as they had honest respect for his signal ability in his specialty.

Young Reynolds was a mathematician born. Languages he endured as unavoidable subjects of study; but he reveled in equations and demonstrations, made child’s play of the required algebra and geometry—thereby earning his nickname of the “Shark”—and carried on advanced work under the eye of the principal, himself an adept of the mathematical brotherhood. Willy, of course, was destined for scientific courses at college; but meanwhile, tarrying with the junior class, he filled his contemporaries with wonder and admiration. For example, he solved at sight a problem to which Tom Orkney had devoted vain and wearisome hours. It was all in the day’s work for the Shark, but Orkney noted another score to be repaid with compound interest.

Sam Parker had been a witness of Tom’s discomfiture on both occasions; but, as may be imagined, was not concerning himself deeply with the sullen youth’s moods. As he himself would have put it, he had troubles enough of his own, and was fully occupied with his own affairs when he went to school on Monday morning. On the way he fell in with Step and Poke. The latter was full of the mystery attending the release of Peter Groche.

“It’s mighty queer—our folks were talking it over at breakfast,” said he. “Course, there was a mistake somewhere, or Major Bates never would have let him go. But Peter didn’t let out a word—just growled, and grumbled, and took himself off, shaking his head. He wouldn’t deny that he shot the Major. The police asked him about it, but he gave them no satisfaction. He’s a bad one, I tell you! Regular Indian, if he gets down on anybody!”